


(Sherlock X Reader) I Love You

by LVE32



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, 221B Ficlet, Adorable, Adorable Sherlock Holmes, Confessions, Cute, Cute Ending, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Feels, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Kissing, Lonely Sherlock, Love Confessions, Male-Female Friendship, Neck Kissing, Oops, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Pre-Relationship, Reader-Insert, Secret Admirer, Secret Crush, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has A Crush, Sherlock Has Secrets, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Short & Sweet, Sweet, Touch-Starved, Vulnerable Sherlock, check out my other work it's way better, establishing realtionship, reader POV, wrote this ages ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LVE32/pseuds/LVE32
Summary: A slip of the tongue spurs Sherlock on to admit something that had been on his mind.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	(Sherlock X Reader) I Love You

**Y/N's POV:**

I wound my scarf about my neck tightly, tucking the ends of it into my coat. 221B had several defining features: a basement, a central London address, and a constant lack of milk. No one quite knew where it got to; cereal? Tea, perhaps? I had asked my flatmate about it, out of curiosity, and he'd shrugged, claiming that he had no idea. I suspected that he just didn't want to admit he enjoyed a mug of warm milk before bed.

"I'm getting milk, Sherlock, okay? Be back in a few minutes." I unlocked the door, then out of habit added: "Bye, love ya."

It had been dark for several hours, the only light being a deep orange from the street lamps that flanked the ribbon-like roads that weaved throughout the city. A brittle November wind picked up a flurry of dead leaves and tossed them about the empty path.

Co-op, in its infinite good nature, was still open when I arrived. I bought some milk, making sure to get more than usual just so I wouldn't have to make another trip to the store at half nine at night within the next few days. 

As soon as I stepped into the flat, Sherlock shot up from the chair he was reading in, his copy of Coffin Road falling to the floor, forgotten.

"Here, let me get that for you." Uncharacteristically kindly, he took the heavy bags from me and put the milk away while I removed my armour against the bitter winter nights. I hanged it on its hooks and kicking my shoes off so they landed pretty-much close enough to the rack.

"Thanks. Next time you're going."

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening, because once he'd closed the fridge he came back over to me. 

Had I not been so distracted with nursing sensation back to my frost-kissed fingertips, I would have registered the unusual shyness of my flatmate as he asked:

"What did you say? Earlier, before you went out."

I tried to remember. "About what?"

Shifting his weight onto his other foot. "Just before you left."

"Oh, you mean when I said 'love ya'?" I sighed internally. I'd felt it hadn't been a good idea when I'd said it. I'd said it to friends and family so much over the years, it had just slipped out. Of course, it was true, I do love him, but I'd long since made peace with the fact that he probably wouldn't return those affections. At least, not in that way. So that time when I'd said it, it had meant 'I appreciate your companionship'.

Sherlock must have not seen it that way. He isn't that kind of person.

My cheeks heated at the thought that I'd caused him any discomfort. Trying to make light of the situation, attempting to soften my nerves, I joked: "You've been waiting all that time to ask me that?"

Sherlock reddened and he dipped his head forwards to hide his eyes with his floppy fringe. "I mean, not  _ all  _ that time. I just...wanted to know what it meant."

"Okay. It means I love you, you know, like in a friendly way. I always say it to the people I care about, just in case...it's morbid, I know, but I say it just in case anything happened. Sorry if I offended you, it just slipped out."

His shoulders seemed to slump, if I didn't know any better, I'd say sadly.

"Oh. well no, you didn't make me uncomfortable. And I'm not offended. I...I'm glad I am so important to you." He looked like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it and stepped away.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to my room for a bit."

...

Sherlock didn't surface again until I was switching the television off to go to bed, as if he could sense me turning in for the night and wanted to catch me just before I did so. He'd changed into his nightclothes, and regarded me folding the blanket I'd been using. "Are you going to bed now?"

I finished folding and left the blanket over the back of the sofa, stretching. "Yeah."

"Oh. Well, good night."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He shifted from foot to foot in the way a child does when about to confess to breaking a family heirloom during a fight with their sibling. Or maybe the floorboards are just cold on his bare toes. Sherlock seems to be barefooted quite a lot, now that I thought about it. It's amusing how he's always the least smartest or smartest dressed person in the room and never anything in between. My theory is that he hates formal clothes but has to wear it to seem professional for clients. He doesn't look professional now, standing there in faded blue pyjamas. His hair is sticking up as if he'd run his fingers through it multiple times in an attempt to comb his thoughts.

"I think you're lying."

"I'm not lying, nothing's wrong. It's just...I love you too, you know."

I didn't know what to address first; the way he'd said it, which was incredibly cute. How the fact that he'd said it at all was incredibly cute. Everything about him is incredibly cute, but that in itself is strange because no one ever calls Sherlock Holmes 'cute'. He isn't cute. He's rude and a show-off and kind of a weirdo and someone that is standing before me in his pyjamas, saying he loves me.

Unable to stop myself from grinning, I leaned up to kiss his cheek as I passed him. "Good night, Sherlock." His skin had been warm against my lips, warm and soft like the petal of a flower on a summer's day.

I'd started ascending the little flight of stairs that lead to my bedroom, but stopped before he was out of sight and turned back to look at my flatmate. Because it seems like something was on his mind, and I was concerned about him. Or maybe I just wanted to look at him some more. 

He was still standing where I'd left him, lightly touching his fingers to the place I'd kissed.

I turned around and came back down the stairs and slid my arms around his waist. No one ever hugs Sherlock, really. It doesn't occur to them that that's something they can---or should---do. I've never hugged him, not that I can remember. I w _ ould r _ emember. But I'm hugging him now because he didn't look like the rude-show-off-kind-of-weirdo who wears tight suits and tries to look professional for clients. He looks like a boy with an ache in his chest.

He'd tensed at my touch, his every muscle shocked with this new sensation, the feeling of someone caring, then he slackened right down to his core. I felt it against me, his body relaxing, and he let a little of his weight rest in my arms. It always feels strange to touch him, I think. He doesn't seem like the kind of thing you can touch. It's often easy to forget he's a human being when he's prowling around a crime scene, firing off deductions as if his gaze can see straight through time and he's describing what happened as he watches it. During times like that, when I forget he's a person, I like to find an excuse to make contact with some part of him. Tug his sleeve or nudge his side with my elbow. Test that he's really here, a physical entity existing on the same plane as the rest of us. 

Of course, he is. 

He's just a man. 

I'd touched him then to remind myself that he's there. I'm touching him now to remind  _ him _ that  _ I'm  _ here. "What's  _ really  _ the matter, Sherlock?" My head is against that spot on his back between his shoulder blades.

"Nothing."

I had my hands looped around his stomach, and he brought his own up to rest on them. His hands are so much bigger than mine that if he held one of them I'm sure it would get lost in his grasp. I'd be fine with that, to be honest. "You're lying again."

"Really, it's nothing."

"Obviously it's not. Come on, you can tell me anything."

"Not this."

I'd loosened my hold on him, taking his hips in my hands and using them to turn him around, bringing him to face me. 

He let me.

"Why not?" I don't want to pester him, but I'm too worried about him to drop it. He thinks I hadn't noticed the subtle change in him recently, but I had. He'd try to meet my eyes, then look away as if my gaze startled him, retreating back under his unruly fringe. I'd touch him; our fingers brushing as he hands me a pen, my hand against his back as I move past him in the hallway, and he'd stumble over whatever words he'd been saying, trip up like I'd pulled the rug out from under his feet.

"I just... Can't."

"Is it a trust thing?" Maybe if he doesn't want to tell me I could somehow convince him to tell someone else? Although the chance would be a fine thing. Since when does he go to anyone for anything? 

"I trust you! Of course I trust you. Nothing is wrong, really, it's nothing."

"You've said that like five times in the past minute." 

A long pause. 

"Sherlock."

Mumbled: "I love you."

I grinned; I'll never get bored of hearing him say that. What a feeling: to be in possession the sentiments of someone that gives them to almost no one. "I know, you just said that." My eyes are level with the centre of his chest, which expands and then deflates as he sighs a tiered breath. Sighing like someone who knew they were entering a losing battle and were putting on their uniform for the final time. 

"No. I mean: I  _ love _ you."

  
...

Dumbfounded. "What?"

Sherlock wilted, realising that he'd have to repeat himself, and lowered his eyes in embarrassment. "I love you. As in... I've fallen in love with you." 

My shocked expression probably alarmed him, because he suddenly acquired the demeanour of a spooked hare. "It doesn't have to change anything! I just can't help it, there's something about you, the way you are, your personality, how you look...I'm sorry. I'll try to stop it."

"You want to stop it?" I still had my hands at his hips, the band of his pyjama trousers under my palms and he seemed to realise this and stepped away.

"Well obviously!" He almost sounded like himself, then, but his voice was dejected when he muttered: "I can't be...that. It feels wrong." He gravitated to the sofa, falling onto it and covering his face with his hands. I like his hands. They really are big, so big he can hide his whole face behind them.

"Oh. I thought falling in love was supposed to be the best feeling in the world."

"It is." He blushed at what he'd just admitted, confused and angry at himself for spilling such a thought, saying something so sappy, for even feeling something so sappy in the first place. "It...it is. But not alone."

I crossed my arms over my chest defensively, as if preparing to hold my heart together when it inevitably gets shattered into a million pieces. I had to admit that I'd started to...hope. It was silly of me to do that; him loving me doesn't mean anything. Just because he feels something that doesn't mean he'll let himself act on it---will w _ ant  _ to act on it. "So you just don't want to be in love with  _ me?" _

"That's not what I meant!" He must have noticed my hurt because he seemed desperate for me to understand exactly what he was saying next, slowing his speech down, purposefully and carefully. "I like it. A lot. It feels good." He's still blushing, and it's delightful. "And you're...astonishing. But that's exactly why I can't...you're too good for me."

Confident people admitting to insecurity always throws me a little off balance. Sherlock's constant self-assuredness is like an ever-present landmark, a familiar face in the ever-changing crowd that is life. Since I'd met him it had become apparent that he's the sort of person who sees himself above everyone else, that he looks down at others. But, now, here he is confessing to looking  _ up _ at me.

He doesn't look like Sherlock at the moment. Well, he does, but a different Sherlock to the one I'm used to seeing. This one is familiar, I feel as though I've always known him, he's always been there, deep down. It's as if all his layers have fallen away, leaving this new, smaller, more vulnerable version of my friend. One who pads around barefoot, is entranced by the charms of women, and painfully aware of his own shortcomings.

I came and sat by him on the sofa. He was staring fixedly at a patch of faded carpet beside the coffee table, avoiding my gaze, avoiding all of me, really. I moved up next to him, closer, so my thigh pushed against his. I felt him register the feel of it, tense at the feel of  _ me _ . I've sat close to him before; whenever we get into a cab he always takes the seat right next to me, even if the others are free. I understand why he does that now. Maybe he tensed all  _ those _ times, too, but I just couldn't feel it through his thick coat---literally and metaphorically.

"Can I touch you?" I felt I needed to ask permission, even though I hadn't before. It's different now; when he'd let slip his secret his courage seemed to have escaped with it.

His adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed nervously. "You've always been allowed to touch me."

A pang of regret twinged in my chest that I hadn't taken full advantage of that fact over the time I'd lived with him.

I shifted closer, turning a little to face him, leaning into his side so much I could feel his arm against my chest. He's still tensed all over with what I hope is anticipation rather than fear. He hasn't pushed me away yet. I wonder if he ever will. I don't think so. Actually, I can't remember a single time he's pushed me away, ever;

He's thinking about a case on the sofa? Moves his feet so I can read my book in my favourite spot by the window.

Examining evidence at the table? Lets me watch, even walks me through what he's doing, letting me see through his microscope.

I'm bored and being as irritating as a petulant child? He  _ still _ doesn't tell me to sod off, even sometimes drops what he's doing to amuse me.

He's leaning into me a little bit.

Just slightly. Tipping his body enough to be pressed against mine. I'd put one arm around his shoulders and hesitantly taken his hair in my hand, the curls at the back of his head sliding into the spaces between my fingers. I could see his breath speed up at this, the rapid rising and falling motion of his chest. If this goes well, if I can persuade him of my reciprocated love, that he  _ is _ good enough, his chest will later be so close I'll be able to  _ feel _ his breathing. An image of him in my bed, my head rising and falling steadily on him as we fall asleep slipped into my mind and pleased me so much I was pitched into a new sphere of confidence; I used my hand at his head to tug him slightly sideways...

And kissed his neck. Just a touch, lightly and quickly pressing my lips just below his ear.

He'd stopped breathing all together now.

But he hadn't pushed me away.

I did it again, slower this time, lingering at that spot near his ear, that place where I had to nudge my nose under his hair to get to him. Nothing happened and I wondered with a sadness whether he wasn't attracted to me enough to care about my mouth at his neck. Or maybe he  _ was _ , but he's not letting himself react. Because of what he said about wanting to fall out of love.

Feeling defeated, I had brought the kiss to an end. I'd parted my lips, letting my tongue grace his sensitive skin as I pulled away.

He moaned shakily.

It was my turn to tense. I think that's one of my new favourite sounds. Sherlock Holmes' unintentional, deep, helpless, rumbling purr of pleasure that seems to vibrate against some hidden part of me. 

I'd give my left arm to hear him do that again.

I smirked. Of course he wasn't immune to having his crush kiss his neck. I can't believe I'd been worried that he was.

He's just a man.

His noise and the feel of him on my lips had made me giddy, my attraction to him flaring like a freshly stoked fire and I chuckled, "I've never heard you make that noise before."

"Sorry." He  _ sounds _ sorry, the kind of sorry that you'd be if you accidentally broke a most treasured possession. He probably thinks he just did; his pride, by showing me what an effect I have on him. How easy he is to please.

I still had my mouth close enough to cause goosebumps to erupt all over his body. "Don't be. I liked it."

He's blushing so much it's crept up his neck to his jawbone. I like the fact that I can make him blush. It's always been  _ me _ that flushes red whenever he stands too close,  _ my _ legs that weaken when we accidentally bump into each other in narrow hallways; his lean solidness, his easy elegance making _ my _ body betray itself. 

There's a certain kind of satisfaction that comes from realising the tables have turned.

_ And the noises he can make. _

"If you're that sensitive to something as simple as a peck on the neck, what would happen if someone kissed you? Properly?"

It took him a little while to collect himself. I imagined his thoughts, already racing at one hundred miles per hour on a regular occasion, now flying about his brain space at lightspeed, ricocheting off each other in wild panic.

Or maybe he's experiencing the opposite. Maybe he's only able to think about one thing, focus on one tiny detail of his life---my breath on his skin---thus he can't find enough thoughts to mush into a sentence.

"I... don't know. No one's ever kissed me before."

...

  
  


I'll address the absurdity of that later. You would think people would be lining up around the block to ask out this beautiful genius. But the fact that people  _ haven't _ means he's starting at square one, and I'm first in line, and I think about that for a second. "Would you like to find out?"

I didn't really give him a chance to answer, not that I needed to; he'd turned his body to face mine a little more, subconsciously leaning closer as if he'd like to fall into me.

My other hand has been resting on my knee, eagerly waiting for it's turn to touch some part of the man my whole being had wanted since the moment it laid eyes on his slender body with its pale skin and strangely wonderful almond eyes.

How had I managed to keep my love for him, my almost overwhelming attraction, hidden for this long? How had I managed not to push him up against the fridge and kiss him senseless all those times we'd cooked our evening meal together? Not called him into the shower with me whenever I heard him pad past the bathroom to his bedroom? How had I managed to stop myself reaching out and just...pressing my palm to some part of him.

I'm doing that now. My hand not wound in his hair had outstretched of its own accord, coming to rest just to the side of his stomach. He's warm beneath me, his pyjama top soft and thin with wear, so thin that I can feel his shifting muscles as he reacts to my touch. They'd stiffened, then slackened as he settled, moving close enough to me to push his forehead into mine.

He's leaning against me, my neck taking some of the reassuring weight of his head.

I hope he knows that; that he can always lean on me. I think that's how I stopped myself from doing all the things I wanted to do; my love for him, my desire to never let anything harm him or make him the slightest bit uncomfortable held me back. But now I know he wants it.

Now that he's up close, really close, I'm suddenly aware of how much bigger he is than me, and something in my midsection tightened delightedly at the fact. He's  _ so _ close now that all I have to do is my head down slightly and my nose would bump into his collarbone.

I do, nudging him as I almost drag my lips over his neck and kiss him there again, lingering long enough to feel a frantic pulse beat below his skin.

Sherlock bit back a groan.

His hands had been clasped in his lap, but now took my hip in one, and the back of my head in the other, as if he felt he had to grab something, hold on as his world got cloudy with this new and strange kind of happy. "Yes. If it was with you," he pushed out between ragged breaths.

I'd followed the muscle leading up to his ear with my mouth, giving the lobe of it a small nip. His grip on the swell of my waist tightened in response, and I stopped then, giving him my forehead again to rest against. I need to remind myself to go slow. He's new to this.

Sherlock's eyes are fixed on my lips. "I feel like...if someone else kisses me not much would happen. But if it was you..."

My fingers moved over his stomach to his side, making his breath hitch. I let them travel from his lower rib, up to the next and then the next until they reached his chest. His pretty lips had fallen open, eyes sliding closed as he savoured this simple touch that somehow managed to leave bursts of sensation in its wake. I took the side of his face in one hand, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone and he leaned into my palm, just soaking up the feeling of someone touching him, my forehead against his. I could taste his breath against my open mouth, feel his quick, uneven breathing. I couldn't take it anymore, and guided his lips down to mine.

He hummed helplessly, hands at my waist pulling me closer hungrily as whatever dam he'd held his desires back with burst open, filling his body, entangling every nerve, swamping every blood cell. When I'd planned giving him his first kiss in my head I'd made a mental list of all the things I wanted to show him, an order I wanted to introduce them to him---but now that he was  _ here _ , under my hands, his scent filling my nose, his taste filling my mouth, all that went out the window. He's a drug and my mind is numbed with him. Nothing exists other than the pressure of his grip, the guttural sounds of pleasure he's sighing into me, and the feeling of his perfectly curved, biteable lips against my own.

When he pulled away, he kept his forehead against mine, as if using me to keep himself upright. As if his whole body had gone as wobbly as my knees go when he says my name. He caught his breath, his body having pushed all of it out of him in the form of various moans and mumbles. His voice was weak and broke as he said: "We shouldn't have done that."

"Did you like it?"

He's still so close to me that I can't see his expression, but I know he's wearing his trademark smirk. For a fleeting moment, my confident Sherlock is back. "Isn't it obvious?"

I'm grinning. I'd kissed him and he'd enjoyed it. I'd made him  _ groan _ . "Then not only should we have done it, we should do it again."

He pulled away properly, as if I'd shocked him with electricity, as I tried to tug him down to me a second time. He'd pulled away so far that he's facing forwards again, out of my grasp, my hands falling into my lap.

They feel cold without him below them, everything has suddenly gone cold. "What's wrong?"

"It's my fault. I shouldn't have let you do that. It's going to be even harder, now, to pretend like I don't feel anything, when in actuality I feel so much I think my chest might burst." He's laughing at himself bitterly, as if finding himself weak, and finding _ that _ amusing.

Sherlock has a way of making people lose patience with him, but I have only gotten properly frustrated with him so few times I can count them on my fingers. This is one of those times. "I still don't understand why you won't let me love you."

Turning to stare at me so fast I thought his neck would break: "You love me?"

The tone of his voice, the way he said it, the slight glimmer of guilty hope behind his pale eyes softened my temper to putty. "I've always loved you. I've always been attracted to you. How didn't you notice?"

Dropping his gaze to the floor. "I don't know. I guess I did but I didn't believe it." For a second, then, I got a glimpse at Sherlock as a child, being asked by his teacher why he scored so low on a test. 

"I would have told you, but I assumed you knew and weren't mentioning it because you were interested in that kind of thing."

His cheeks flushed as he said, still hiding under his fringe: "Well, I am. Have been, for a while now."

"Then what's the problem?" I hate how cryptic he's accidentally being; he clearly thinks the issue is obvious, but I don't see what's holding him back. He's just found out the love of his life reciprocates his feelings; he should be euphorically dancing about the living room.

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face as if he wished he could hide inside the calming darkness they provided. His broad shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. A different kind of sigh to the ecstasy-filled one's he'd done a second ago. This sigh was pure despondency. "I've already told you why I can't...feel this way towards you. It feels wrong for me to love anyone. I'm not...boyfriend material. I'm weird and rude and clumsy at relationships and---"

That's what this is about? I had to fight off the urge to laugh. "And an idiot.  _ My _ idiot. I know about all that stuff and I don't care. Those things are what I  _ love _ about you. We've been best friends for ages. This will be exactly the same as that, just with more..." I placed my hand on his leg and gave it a small reassuring squeeze, praying he wouldn't nudge it away, "...touching."

Sherlock's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes fixed on my hand. "...I like the sound of that." Gingerly, he places one of his own large hands over mine, the weight of it warming me, the feeling of his fingers curling into the spaces between mine making a smile spread across my face. He shyly returns it and leans closer to me again, seeking my embrace. "...But are you sure that  _ you  _ do? Because you know what being with me will probably be like, right? I'm going to forget Valentine's day, and I'm not interested in couples friends---"

"Don't you see? Nor am I! That's one of the millions of reasons I love you, Sherlock. We don't have to do all that stuff, I don't want that stuff. All I want is you."

He's biting his bottom lip, daring to meet my eyes, checking them for sincerity and obviously finding it. It makes him beam and he finally lets me tug him down for another kiss. It's still a little hesitant, not just because this is his second kiss in his whole life, but because I think he's still worried. I sigh internally; I'd been euphoric when I'd realised the only thing standing between a relationship and us was petty insecurity. But now I'm realising that that's not as small an issue as I'd initially deemed it to be. Is he always going to worry that he's doing something wrong? Is he always going to be doubting my satisfaction with him? 

I accept that challenge with open arms; make Sherlock Holmes feel wanted.

He's tilting his head, signalling he'd like to deepen the kiss and I break it first, saying against Sherlock's lips with a small laugh: "God, I'm so in love with you." Before pulling him back against me, harder, pushing him into the backrest of the sofa. He goes more than willingly, making a soft moaning sound at my eagerness. I can feel his hands grasping my waist, one of them moving up to take the back of my head, his long nimble fingers winding themselves in my hair. I'm glad of that; that he's finally letting himself get absorbed by affection. He's waited too long for it.

When we pulled away, he was panting through a wide grin. He chuckled his deep mellow laugh and it went right through me. He noticed, because of course he did. "Wow."

I grinned back at him, one of my hands still submerged in his (now rather messy) curls. Smirking, teasing him, best friends but with more touching: "So, you like kissing, then?"

He shifted below me, the hand at my head travelling to cup my jawline. He stroked his thumb over my lips, slowly, as if he couldn't believe he was here, doing that, holding me. "Yes. But I meant...wow, it feels amazing to have someone love me."

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was an earlier work (and I mean EARLIER like several years ago??) so sorry it wasn't up to my usual standard :-/ Hope you enjoyed it anyway


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